THE YOUNG HEIRESS

The rain had stopped, but the earth remained soft, as if refusing to let go. The mud covered his feet, sticky, as if trying to hold him a little longer before letting go. Elias struggled forward, his arms covered in scratches, his muscles tense, his chest burning with each breath.

He had been running for hours. Or maybe days. Time in the forest isn't measured like it is in the world of clocks. The undergrowth had broken his skin, insects buzzed as if they knew his story. He didn't know if they were chasing him or escorting him.

Suddenly, the trees parted toward a bend in the river. Clean water. Fluid. Like a promise. Elias dropped to his knees and clumsily reached inside, drinking desperately. He felt if he closed his eyes now, he'd never open them again. His fingers stirred the gravel as if searching for something buried there. Something long lost. The engine of a pickup truck roared in the distance.

A figure was approaching along the dirt road: a dark, double-cab vehicle, sliding with difficulty through the mud. The driver-an older, gray-haired man, alone-seemed unaware of the half-fallen log blocking the path.

Elías scrambled to his feet, unsteady.

"Watch out!" he shouted, but his voice cracked, barely a whisper in the humid air.

He ran without thinking. He just reacted. The log gave way, the tire scraped him, the pickup truck became unstable. Elías arrived just in time to open the driver's door, pull the man out, and roll with him down the slope. There was a loud bang, followed by the screech of metal hitting a rock.

Silence.

Then, only the steady sound of the river.

A memory clouded his mind:

Run.

A faceless voice. A hand pushing him in the darkness.

Don't look back.

The creaking of a metal door. The smell of confinement: old oil, rancid dampness, dried blood.

A chain dragging. A stifled scream.

And then... nothing.

The man he'd saved was breathing heavily. His shirt was torn and his forehead was bloody, but he was conscious. He sat up slowly, dazed. He looked at Elías as if he didn't know if he was seeing a boy... or a ghost.

"What's your name?"

Elías remained silent. Not out of distrust. But because the question pierced him. As if naming himself would betray something he didn't yet fully remember.

"You don't have to say it," the man added, his voice softer. "But you saved my life. And you don't forget that."

It wasn't a common pattern. It showed in the way he looked at him, without arrogance or pity. As if he, too, had been on the brink, once.